


Those Lost at Sea and Never Found

by Shadowscast



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-06
Updated: 2007-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowscast/pseuds/Shadowscast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel's underwater; Justine's in the closet.  Lindsey goes looking for Lilah and finds Wesley instead. Wesley, meanwhile, is not really in a good place. Slash ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Lost at Sea and Never Found

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Yourlibrarian for the beta-reading!
> 
> This story was [originally posted](http://community.livejournal.com/maleslashminis/92471.html) in October, 2007 for the [Maleslash Minis](http://community.livejournal.com/maleslashminis) ficathon. The details of the original request can be found at the bottom of the fic.

Wesley can still taste Lilah after she leaves. He lies back against the damp pillow, touches his bruised lip, and allows himself a moment of bitter satisfaction before turning his thoughts to search grids.

Now that he has a boat, he will find Angel. It is only a matter of time.

Then he hears footsteps in the hallway.

He sits up and extracts the handgun from his bedside table in an unhurried motion. By the time a man appears in his doorway, Wesley is already aiming the gun. The man raises his hands, smiling incongruously. "Don't shoot."

Wesley recognizes him immediately, though it takes a him moment longer to recall the name. "Lindsey McDonald," he says, arching an eyebrow and holding the gun steady.

"Yeah, sorry. I guess I have the wrong address." He shrugs. Wesley can see the faint line of a scar around his upheld right wrist. "Hey, uh, have you seen Lilah Morgan?"

"I'm sorry," Wesley says, "You've just missed her."

Lindsey nods almost imperceptibly. He can't have missed noticing Wesley's nakedness, nor for that matter the tangled sheets or the smell of sex. "I'll try to catch up," he says, already backing away from the door. But then he stops. "I know you. You work for Angel."

Wesley is bemused at the idea that it took Lindsey this long to recognize him. "I did," he says.

Lindsey no longer seems inclined to leave. His eyes flicker with new interest over Wesley's surroundings. "Is he here?"

Wesley snorts. "If this is another of Lilah's attempts to catch me off guard, you can let her know it's a rather weak one."

Lindsey shakes his head, now looking a bit puzzled. "Like I said, I'm looking for Lilah. But if Angel's around, I wouldn't mind a word or two with him..."

"I rather think he expressed a desire never to see you again," Wesley says. He's still aiming the gun. "But in any case—no one knows where Angel is."

"Oh," says Lindsey. "He been gone long?"

"Nearly a month."

The news of Angel's disappearance seems to unsettle Lindsey. "Any idea why he left?"

"None," Wesley says. He is getting rather tired of this interview. "If you want to catch up to Lilah, you had best be on your way. She was headed to Wolfram and Hart, I believe. I'm sure your old colleagues would love to see you. Perhaps you could show them your vacation snapshots."

"Listen," Lindsey said. "I heard Darla had a son."

Wesley flinches—only slightly, but he's sure Lindsey notices. He becomes uncomfortably aware of his own nudity for the first time since Lindsey darkened his door, and the scar feels livid on his neck. "So you've been keeping tabs on her," he says. "How charming. Now, I really would like you to leave." He motions with the gun; it's not a threat, exactly, but a reminder of his particular position of power here.

"Let's keep it cool," Lindsey says, raising his hands a little higher. "I don't want to hassle you. It's just, I was looking for Lilah 'cause I hoped she could tell me more about Darla's son. You ... you know about him too, don't you?"

It's strange to hear Connor referred to in that manner. He is Angel's son—or Holtz's. Darla never even laid eyes on him. "I don't feel inclined to discuss the matter," he says. "You might have better luck with Lilah. Tell her hello for me."

"Maybe I can help you find Angel," Lindsey says. Quickly.

It takes effort for Wesley to maintain a tone of casual disdain. "You didn't even know he was missing. And in any case, what makes you think I want to find him?"

"Well ... wouldn't you?" Again, Lindsey looks puzzled. Whatever intelligence he's managed to gather on the players he left behind in Los Angeles, it clearly suffers from some rather gaping holes. "He _is_ your friend, right?"

"He tried to smother me with a pillow."

Lindsey blinks. "That's Angel for you. Tough love."

Wesley shrugs. "One could argue that I deserved it." And then he can't quite stop himself from adding, "_How_ did you think you might help to find him?"

"It's not easy to explain quickly," Lindsey says. "But I've spent a lot of time studying how not to be found. Some of it works the other way, too. I found Lilah, didn't I?"

Wesley raises an eyebrow. "In point of fact, you didn't."

"Okay, but you said I just missed her."

"There are many people who could have told you where Lilah was." She swears that she's kept their relationship a secret, but Wesley doesn't believe her. "That didn't take great powers of detection."

"I had no idea she'd started fucking the enemy," Lindsey says. "Wait. _Are_ you still the enemy?"

"That remains to be seen." Wesley comes to a decision and puts the gun back in the drawer. "Come in. I'll make some tea."

Wesley has Justine in his closet and a newly-purchased boat. He is confident that he will find Angel, given time. Still, Lindsey has made him curious.

Lindsey lowers his hands, looking relieved, and steps through the doorway as Wesley stands up and casts a look around for his discarded blue jeans. They're in the corner. Remembering the look in Lilah's eyes as she peeled them off of him makes Wesley's cock twitch. He looks back and catches Lindsey watching him; Lindsey's neck flushes pink, and he averts his eyes. Wesley smiles to himself and steps into the jeans.

Wesley used to be a man who would blush. Somewhere in the midst of the slit throat, the suffocation, the exile and the unrelenting grief, he seems to have lost the knack.

He heads for the kitchen. "Do you take milk?" he asks Lindsey. "Sugar?"

Lindsey follows him. "Actually, I'd rather have coffee."

"How nice that you haven't lost your overinflated sense of entitlement." Wesley nevertheless reaches for the coffee tin. He isn't planning to go to sleep for quite some time yet.

"I drove straight here from Phoenix," Lindsey says. "I don't think tea's gonna cut it."

Space in the kitchen is tight. As Wesley brings the coffee pot to the sink, he brushes accidentally against Lindsey and notices, with dark amusement, that Lindsey's own cock is hard. He wonders whether being held at gunpoint by a naked man has played into some secret fetish of Lindsey's.

The ritual of scooping the fragrant coffee grounds into the filter occupies Wesley's hands and eyes. "How would you help me find Angel?" he asks without looking around at Lindsey.

"There are spells."

"Locator spells, I know." If it were that easy, Wesley would have found Angel a month ago—and Lilah would have, as well. Wesley isn't sure exactly why they failed, but he suspects it has something to do with several thousand tons of salt water. "They don't work."

"So maybe he's doing something to block them," Lindsey says. "Maybe he doesn't want to be found."

Wesley sincerely doubts that this is the case, but obviously he's not about to say why. "Well then, perhaps we should just leave him alone," he says.

"I want to know about Darla's baby," Lindsey returns. Wesley is not sure if he means it as a response to the comment about Angel, or if he's merely reminding Wesley of the other half of their supposed bargain.

"Angel's son," Wesley corrects him, and he sees a rebellious flicker in Lindsey's eyes.

"He sure about that?"

Wesley reaches up to fetch down a pair of coffee mugs. "Hoping for an appearance on the Jerry Springer show, are we?"

Lindsey chuckles darkly. "Who's the daddy: me or my vampire arch-nemesis? Wolfram &amp; Hart's entertainment division could probably sell that in prime time."

"He _is_ Angel's son," Wesley says again. He couldn't say why Lindsey's pretensions to fatherhood are grating so badly on his nerves, but they are—perhaps, having stolen Connor from Angel once, Wesley is now guilt-bound to assert Angel's claim on the boy against all comers.

Wesley is also becoming increasingly convinced that Lindsey doesn't know about Quortoth.

"You can't tell me he did a DNA test," Lindsey says, with approximately the scorn the idea deserves.

"He won a boon from the Higher Powers, seeking to save Darla's life. That proved impossible, so they granted life to Connor instead." All of this, Lindsey could equally well learn from Lilah. The only secrets Wesley need keep are Justine, and the boat.

Come to think of it, it might not be terribly wise to entertain guests while Justine is locked in the closet—but by now Wesley is certain she will not draw attention to herself.

Lindsey seems to fold in on himself a bit. "Connor," he repeats.

The coffee is ready. Wesley pours it, and hands Lindsey his in a plain blue mug with a chipped handle. Lindsey accepts it with the barest nod of thanks, and then sets it on the counter so that he can extract a silver flask from the pocket of his jacket. He unscrews the cap and pours a generous amount of amber liquid into his coffee. Then he holds it up, raising an eyebrow at Wesley.

Wesley accepts the wordless offer with a nod, and holds out his coffee mug so that Lindsey might adulterate it with God-knows-what. It seems unlikely that Lindsey is going to poison him, all things considered.

Lindsey holds out his mug as though for a toast, and then takes a fairly generous drink. Wesley sips his own more slowly, it being quite hot. He can taste the alcohol; it was rum, he thinks, in the flask.

"Were you there when Darla died?" Lindsey asks. It's clear that the question has been on his mind since the beginning.

"When she dusted," Wesley corrects him. "I believe _you_ were present when she most recently died."

"She was dying anyway," Lindsey says. And then, "I didn't want it to go that way." He takes another drink of his spiked coffee.

"She staked herself in order to deliver the baby," Wesley says. His voice softens as he remembers those desperate moments in the alley. "It was an act of astounding selflessness."

"Yeah. My girl, she had a good heart." Lindsey says this last almost under his breath, and covers up with an over-enthusiastic gulp of coffee that leaves him coughing and choking. Wesley gives him a thump on the back for form's sake, which rather than helping causes Lindsey to slosh most of his coffee down his own front.

"Shit!" Lindsey gasps, stumbling back against the counter and plucking the front of his shirt away from his body. "Aah, fuck, it's _hot_."

"Sorry." Wesley plucks the coffee mug out of Lindsey's hand and puts it safely on the counter, along with his own. He feels more than a twinge of embarrassment. "Here, let me help." He grabs a dish towel and begins patting the front of Lindsey's jeans.

Soon the dish towel is sopping with coffee and rum, while Lindsey's situation doesn't seem much improved. "I have a washer and dryer," Wesley finally says. "It would take less than an hour to clean your clothes."

"Fuck," Lindsey says. He reaches for his flask again, and drinks a good few swallows, straight. "Fuck," he says again for good measure, looking down at the mess. "I didn't even bring another pair of pants."

"Take your clothes off and give them to me," Wesley says.

Lindsey hesitates. "Just tell me where the detergent is and I can start the wash myself."

"The washer is tricky." Wesley lies, "I'd better do it." Lindsey's reluctance to undress has perversely made Wesley decide to force the issue. And in the back of his mind, there's the memory of brushing against Lindsey's erection earlier.

Lilah always leaves Wesley wanting more. And Lindsey came to the door before he could wank himself off to the memory of her, as he usually does.

"Well, I'm not going to strip right here in the kitchen," Lindsey says.

"I don't care where you do it." Another lie—by now, Wesley has decided he would quite like to see Lindsey strip. "At any rate, you've already seen me naked." And then, although the action clearly oversteps a boundary, Wesley reaches over and begins to unbutton Lindsey's shirt.

"Hey." Lindsey traps Wesley's hand in his own, squeezes it and pulls it away from his buttons. "Didn't anybody ever teach you about personal space?"

There's something here, something more than the immediately apparent. Lindsey's cheeks are flushed and his breathing has quickened; Wesley is quite sure that his actions are turning the other man on. The coy protests don't quite fit, coming from Lindsey—if he were truly uninterested in or threatened by Wesley's advances, he would surely just shove him angrily away. "You're hiding something," Wesley concludes out loud.

"Oh, come on, don't be—" Lindsey's denial is cut off when Wesley very quickly tugs at the front of his shirt, popping apart the top three buttons.

They both look down at Lindsey's chest. "Interesting tattoo," Wesley observes.

"Well, damn," Lindsey says, sinking back against the counter. "All right, you got me. Just promise not to tell Lilah."

"What is it?" Wesley asks.

"You don't just _quit_ Wolfram and Hart," Lindsey says. "I needed something to hide me from the Senior Partners."

"And yet you came back to Los Angeles."

"I needed to know about Darla's son."

Wesley is staring at the design on Lindsey's chest, committing it to memory. The unfamiliar symbols are awakening the itch of academic curiosity in him, a sensation which he hasn't felt much of late. At the same time, he can't help noticing Lindsey's well-defined pectoral muscles; he feels an urge to touch them, and he doesn't resist it. "You don't want Lilah to know about this," he murmurs, tracing the curves of the tattoo with one finger. "You know that she and I are lovers. What makes you think I _won't_ tell her?"

Lindsey's mouth quirks. "I'm asking nicely?"

Wesley raises an eyebrow, and deliberately keeps his fingertips in contact with the warm skin of Lindsey's chest. "I imagine that she would reward me quite generously for information about _you_," he says. "I think you had better ask me very nicely indeed."

Lindsey takes in a slow breath. Wesley barely dares to breathe, himself. His experiences with other boys during his school days were very different from this. Never before has he tried to seduce another man through such a heady mix of blackmail, innuendo and boldness. Nor does Lindsey strike him as the sort of man who customarily yields to such pressure.

"Show me the washing machine," Lindsey says.

The washer and dryer are of the stackable sort, tucked into a sort of closet next to the bathroom. Wesley explains their operation; they're the energy-efficient type, with a multiplicity of settings, but Lindsey could quite easily have figured them out for himself.

"This is nothing compared to the Wolfram &amp; Hart voicemail system," Lindsey comments, twirling a knob.

"I suppose," Wesley demurs. "Though I believe it does periodically send individual socks to some unknown hell dimension."

"And here's the detergent," Lindsey picks it off a shelf. "Hey, this is the brand my mother uses."

"It was on sale," Wesley says, suddenly off balance.

Lindsey smirks. "That's why _she_ uses it. Now get out of here so I can get on with this."

Wesley finds himself exiled, back in the kitchen. He rests against a wall and groans softly to himself. Muffled sounds from the hallway tell him that Lindsey is undressing. Wesley feels the frustrated pressure of his cock inside his own jeans, which is about equally as uncomfortable as the deflation of his ego. _You just aren't as bad-ass as you think you are,_ says a voice in his head. It sounds like Cordelia; Wesley is momentarily overcome with missing her.

The washing machine starts up, and Lindsey comes back into the kitchen. Wesley is startled, and tries to hide it. Lindsey is naked but for a pair of grey boxer/briefs. Wesley notices that there are more tattoos than he first saw; there are bands of symbols around Lindsey's arms, and over his shoulders.

"So, we were talking about how you weren't going to tell Lilah anything about any body art," Lindsey says. He braces his hands against the wall on either side of Wesley.

Wesley is instinctively intimidated, but he fights down the feeling; _I _am_ that bad-ass, as a matter of fact,_ he tells his imaginary Cordelia, and he straightens his spine. "Did you have any sort of incentive in mind?" he says as coolly as he can manage.

Lindsey smirks. "I know what you haven't been getting from Lilah." And then his hands are at the fly of Wesley's jeans. He undoes the button and pulls down the zipper without breaking eye contact, without losing his smirk.

Wesley tries to swallow and finds his throat has gone quite unbearably dry. He is wearing absolutely nothing besides the jeans. His cock, freed from its denim restraints, stands erect. And Lindsey drops to his knees.

As Lindsey takes Wesley's shaft in his mouth, Wesley's head thumps back painfully against the wall, quite of its own accord. He wishes he didn't have to remain standing—his knees already seem as though they might give out. It is quite true that Lilah never does this, and Wesley wonders briefly whether Lindsey knows it from experience or only made an educated guess. His fingers tighten in Lindsey's hair. Lindsey is using his mouth and tongue with confidence; it is certain that Wesley's is not the first cock he has sucked.

When he's brought Wesley to the very edge, Lindsey rocks back on his heels and looks up at him. "So, you're gonna promise not to say a word to anyone about my tattoos, and then I'm gonna make you come so hard you see stars. Deal?"

Wesley's voice comes out jagged, strained. "What makes you think I'll keep your deal?" It's not the right thing to say, but it's a strange mood gripping him and he really does wonder.

Lindsey's lips curl up into that smirk again. "You're one of the good guys."

"Ah. Of course." Wesley lets his head fall back against the wall and he closes his eyes, because suddenly there are tears.

Lindsey takes him in deeper this time, almost down to the bottom of his shaft. Wesley thinks he can feel Lindsey's throat muscles contracting around him. He climaxes almost immediately, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands to stop himself from crying out.

Lindsey stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks fairly calm, in sharp contrast to Wesley's fragile state. "All right," he says. "Now I'm gonna go look through your clothes and find something that'll fit me, and then I'm gonna go out and get some more coffee. You're going to make sure my clothes are clean and dry by the time I get back."

Wesley doesn't answer, and Lindsey doesn't wait. He walks away. Alone in the kitchen, Wesley lets his legs fold up under him as they've been wanting to do for quite some time, and he slides down the wall to the floor. He hears drawers opening and closing. And then the closet door.

A moment later, Lindsey comes back into the kitchen. He's wearing Wesley's black jogging pants, and a grey t-shirt. "Okay, new plan," Lindsey says. "You don't tell anyone, ever, about my tattoos, and I don't tell anyone about the woman in the cage in your closet."

Wesley fights down a sudden urge to vomit. He can't believe how careless he has been; he might call it self-destructive, except that it is Angel's rescue he has jeopardized. "That sounds fair," he says.

Lindsey walks away without a word, and comes back a moment later with his boots. He puts them on, bracing one foot at a time on a chair as he does up the laces.

"You wanted to know about Connor," Wesley says. "You won't find him, not the baby you're looking for. A man named Holtz abducted him and fled with him into a hell dimension where time runs faster, relative to ours. Connor survived the hell dimension and returned, but he's sixteen years old, and he bears the scars one might expect from such an upbringing."

"Don't worry," Lindsey says, "I'm leaving town as soon as I get my clothes back." His expression tightens. "Anyway, he's Angel's son." He takes his silver flask of rum from where he'd left it on the laundry shelf, and unscrews the top to take a drink. Then he caps it again. "Here," he says to Wesley, "You look like you could use this." He tosses him the flask and walks away.

The front door closes, and Wesley stares at the flask. "I'm sorry," he says softly. In his mind's eye, Angel gazes at him from underwater, new betrayal piled upon old.

There is nothing to do but keep on going as before. Wesley stands up, fastens his jeans, and turns his thoughts to search grids.

**Author's Note:**

> The request I wrote this story for was as follows:
> 
> Male character (ONE) you want paired with Wesley: Lindsey  
> Up to three things you want in your fic: snark or banter, darker tone, mention of Connor  
> Up to two things you don't want: non-con, death-fic  
> Preferred maximum rating: anything goes  
> Does your request require comics canon? nope  
> If not, are you open to having comics canon used in the story written for you? sure


End file.
